


his fatal throne: which, if not victory, is yet revenge

by rottencloset



Series: paradise lost [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), Detective Comics (Comics), Robin: Son of Batman (Comics)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous Age, Bottom Damian Wayne, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Minor Degradation, More tags to be added, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Damian Wayne, Porn With Plot, Verbal Humiliation, a/b/o dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22195510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rottencloset/pseuds/rottencloset
Summary: Ducard didn’t die on the boat. Years later, he takes his revenge on Damian.-He ended frowning, and his look denouncedDesperate revenge, and battle dangerousTo less than gods.On th' other side up roseBelial, in act more graceful and humane.--John Milton.
Relationships: Morgan Ducard/Damian Wayne
Series: paradise lost [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1598545
Comments: 2
Kudos: 59





	his fatal throne: which, if not victory, is yet revenge

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t like, don’t read. 
> 
> This came into being because I really really r e a l l y wanted creepy older man/Damian like Roman/Jason or Ra’s/Tim and no one else was doing it lmao so I had to take it into my own hands. 
> 
> Plus like. The sexual tension in the Nobody arc was extreme so I basically had to.
> 
> Pay attention to the tags.

Hanging by thick chains, Damian remembers Ducard’s hands on him, large and all encompassing. He’d been so tiny when compared to him, and he’d only realized the full extent of that when his big palms had pressed against his chest. Morgan’s mask had peered down at him, hiding his face, but Damian had practically been able to see his smirk as he taunted Batman through the comms.

He’d said, “My hands are across your son’s chest now,” and that seemingly innocent sentence had strangely made Damian freeze up. It _dripped_ with implied obscenity, his voice husky and low, and while he’d grasped the nature of what was being said he’d been incapable of fully understanding it.

(But now? He wasn’t.)

Back then, something had curled in his gut warmly despite his instincts shrieking with panic, despite the threat of the sonics that shortly followed, despite what he said next while grappling with Father;

“...so I’m taking your _son._ ”

Maybe that was why he didn’t kill him when he had the chance.

Being called Batman’s son and not having him flinch away or clench his jaw like the reminder was painful was- despite all that Ducard had done- enough for him to choose mercy.

Instead he just left him there, let Father hitch him up onto his back and carry him out while the ship slowly sunk. There had been no corpse when Maya had investigated months later, but it had still been enough for her to vow vengeance against him and hunt him down. He was... glad that they’d gotten over what had drawn them together. Frankly, the beta was the only good thing that had come out of that whole mess.

They didn’t breach that subject anymore. Both of them didn’t like thinking about if Morgan was alive.

Perhaps, Damian thinks, they should have.

Ducard’s face looks up from the floor at him, and Damian shifts, shoulders aching uncomfortably and snarls down at the man, angry scent permeating the air because the mercenary had removed his concealer patch. His dislike for him as soon as he’d found out that he had enjoyed his job had only increased when half a year later Maya had discussed his abusive (even if she didn’t call it that) nature, and currently he was more concerned with beating the absolute hell out of him than his captivity.

His Titans would come for him.

... maybe. Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if Crush would simply take his spot as pack-alpha and cut him out of their ramshackle group. Their bonds were weak enough. Djinn was an ambitious enough beta to support her, even if they hadn’t been dating. Wallace was a wild card, but even if he did try to look for him he wouldn’t get very far.

... or some other ally would.

Not his family, though. Timothy was throughly absorbed in his new team-pack- he’d been late with the last couple of check-ins he’d had, but Damian supposed that was due to the spacial distortions between dimensions. It’s not like he’d want the brother that was seriously considering the superhero name ‘Drake’ to come save him.

Jason wouldn’t either. Damian could admit that their last encounter had ended very very badly for both of them; it was honestly inevitable for them to beat each other bloody once again, though.

And Father- was with Kyle. Even if he wasn’t, they weren’t on speaking terms. At all. The alpha was, to say in the least, displeased with him. His heart clenches as he thinks of the only family member that’s more painful to think of; Richard. He wouldn’t. Period. He wasn’t the man who had wrapped him up in hugs and kisses anymore. Duke and Cassandra were who knows where with their new non-familial pack, and Stephanie had been gone in the wind long enough with Kate and Barbara on some undercover op that she was out of the option.

A jeer pulls him out of his thoughts, and as he looks down at the stocky man, he realizes his scent had shifted more to despair than he was comfortable with- just making him more of the stereotypical weak omega. Damian shoves them from his mind and- from years of training from the League and then his father- forcibly changes the marker in the air towards neutrality, hiding away his emotions.

Ducard laughs, deep and rich, and tugs the chains down low enough that his toes barely brush the cold floor. As soon as he has leverage, Damian attempts to take him out with his legs, but the older male bats the attack away like it’s a butterfly, lightning fast. “Good to see that you still have some fight left in you, _boy._ ”

Indignation flashes through him, and he grits his teeth but then- the next thing he knows he’s being pinned to the wall, wrists encircled by one hand while the other huge hand lifts his head backwards by his hair and _slams_ his face against it.

His nose breaks with a crunch, and Damian can’t stop the agonized sound that wrenches out of his chest. His entire face and scalp throbs horribly- he’s definitely got a couple of cuts and deep bruising, plus a possible concussion, and as his eyesight blurs he tries to blink away the blood that drips down from his forehead. Iron fills his mouth, and he turns around as best he can and spits it at Ducard, saliva flecked in blood.

The spittle lands on his face. His aim is impeccable, as usual.

(For a moment, Damian’s reminded of the last time he was cornered against a wall, bruised and bloody and broken, up against an opponent too big and powerful to take down by himself, and his gaze unfocuses, terror flooding his veins- but then Morgan shoves his face into the wall and he’s snapped out of the past with a yelp.)

The disrespect earns him a growl, and the side of his face is ground into the rough wall until its all scraped up into a bloody mess. Damian lets out a breathy whine and wriggles, hoping to entice Morgan into easing up the force. It works, and the pressure abides a little bit as Ducard backs off; Damian half-sobs before cutting it off and wrenching himself backward, aiming for Ducard’s face, and when it smashes into it with a crack the sob transforms into a cackle.

Nobody instantly slams him against the wall and _roars._

Fresh blood dripping from his disturbed wounds, the vigilante wheezes, smiling viciously all the while as the putrid aroma of a furiously displeased alpha meets his nose, and grins. His head rolls back like he’s drunk, and he’s happy to see that Morgan is nursing what looks like the beginning of a black eye and split lip.

“Fuck you,” he slurs, head pounding, “-go to hell, you abhorrent abusive bastard.”

A huge hand grabs his neck and shoves him forward against the wall until he’s flush against it, and Damian snarls, thrashing furiously. Hot air puffs against his scalp, and then- Ducard scents him, nose flaring in interest. That’s when he really starts struggling, because it’s crude, and humiliating, and terrifying.

(Even more so because Damian’s an omega. Ducard knows this already, and while it honestly most likely wouldn’t make a difference, society was still entrenched in caste-expectations.

Within a family, it was expected that alphas were given the most amount of respect and were the most mature and trusted. They were also typically the eldest.

The betas were essentially a step below the alphas; they were the deputies of the family, second only to those with the most power. Gammas were those in lesser positions of power and were the most common caste; what the alphas and betas decided affected mostly them. And omegas were- to put it simply- the weakest. The least deserving of respect and trust and power for various reasons such as age, contribution to the family, and past behavior.

Respect was inherent for alphas, because that meant they had clawed their way to the top and survived- they earned their position of power, and that meant they were a force to be reckoned with. From there on the amount of respect given dwindled down until the two lower castes- gammas, but to a higher extent omegas- were forced to earn it.

And that meant that they were treated more badly because they hadn’t achieved anything worthy of respect.

Despite everything that Damian had done to earn his family’s respect and love and trust he was still the omega of the family. And while there was nothing wrong with being an omega, as Richard would say, it would still paint him as a target. Richard liked to think that he was the omega of the family because he was the youngest, but Damian knew better.

It was because he was weak. Weak to the temptations of the things taught to him by the League of Assassins, weak in loving and showing love and compassion, weak to violence, weak in trust from his family.

And weakness was always exploited. The weak were always the ones taken advantage of and hurt.)

Teeth graze along the curve of his neck, scraping unpleasantly, and Damian growls with poorly concealed terror and strains to get away as best as possible. Morgan just pushes him against the wall harder, shoves the breath out of him with his force. Blood pumping in his veins, the trapped teen cranes his head back and sees how his pupils are expanded, sees how it makes Ducard’s eyes flash dark with arousal, sees he leans in closer and sniffs around his sweat and blood damp skin for the perfect area to bite down on. He stops, hovers over an area.

There’s a beat, then-

Damian _screams._ It’s shrill and loud and frantic, and the assassin flinches back at the sound, pupils constricted in surprise, but then he leans in again, a dark grin smug on his lips. “Scared, little boy?” He asks, and Damian doesn’t answer, just thrashes and squirms as best as he can while his neck pulses.

For a moment, everything stills. The older man backs off.

But then- then, a hot, large bulge rubs up against the crevice his ass, thick and wet. “Mhm, yeah, cry for me, baby Wayne. Do that again.”

Damian snaps his jaw shut with a click. No. He will _not._ He will not give this bastard the satisfaction of reaction any longer. (Doesn’t think about how he’s- on some level- already accepted what’s going to happen. Disgusting and weak and omega.) A knife makes quick work of his pants, and between one inhale and the next his consciousness flies away from the scene.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Twitter @rottencloset for more nasty stuff


End file.
